


Beneath A Pale Moonlight

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Id Fic, One Shot, World Domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarrlok recognizes Noatak as the Equalist movement is just starting to gather steam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath A Pale Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://ficbending.livejournal.com/1766.html?thread=1596646#t1596646) and [this picture](http://anghraine.tumblr.com/post/26381058561/carrotcakebandit-ill-go-die-now#notes), though not quite based on them.

Amon lived among his brothers and sisters, talking to them as the equals they were. More than his equals—though his bloodbending would be crucial to the eventual revolution, he felt its taint on his soul. _They_ were pure. Amon was not. He dirtied his hands so that the Equalists might have some chance against other benders, but he never closed his eyes without seeing the bending triads, the firebenders’ invasions and earthbenders’ before them, Yakone, Tarrlok’s small frightened face, all of it imprinted upon his eyelids. He could not so much as return spilled tea to a cup without feeling a flicker of revulsion—and of satisfaction, too. Even after thirty-odd years, the moon and ocean still sang in his blood, exulting over every droplet he commanded.

Oh, yes, he was impure.

And though Amon lived among his—the, _the_ —Equalists, even he could not perform every moment of every day. At the very least he had to sleep. So each night, Amon vanished. The mask went off, into a ragged satchel, and a pale, scarred Water tribesman made his way to his apartments. He was careful to lock the door behind him; then he tossed the satchel aside, and went to the bathroom to scrub off Amon’s face.

Some of the water he used splashed over the edge of the sink. He caught his reflection carelessly sending the water down the drain, and stared at the man in the mirror—neither Amon, masked hero of the forthcoming revolution, nor a broken teenage boy from the Northern Water Tribe, but simply another nameless waterbender scraping by in the dregs of this city. Half-fascinated, half-repulsed, he turned away.

Then the waterbender stiffened, hearing-feeling—something. He wasn’t sure what, and he had no intentions of revealing himself as a bloodbender to some random intruder. He pulled a ring of water after him, ready to attack if necessary, and persuade, if not, then stepped out into the main room.

A man in elegant blue robes sat on one of the two rickety chairs set around the apartment’s tiny table. He looked Northern, his ropes of dark hair falling over his shoulders. The satchel was discarded at his feet, Amon’s mask in his hands. The stranger glanced up.

The waterbender almost lost his grip on the liquid looping behind him. The man was, if not exactly the reflection he had just seen, the next thing to it: he had the same arched brows, lowered over the same narrow blue eyes, the same long, hard face, darker and squarer than his own.

“I thought I recognized you,” said the stranger, a note of breathless triumph edging his voice. It didn’t quite suit him; the waterbender had heard him speak once or twice, his tones as smooth and assured as Amon’s. He sounded nothing like Yakone. Nothing, even, like the boy denouncing their bending. _“Noatak.”_

“Noatak,” he murmured to himself. It was oddly pleasant to hear his name, his own name, the syllables half-unfamiliar in his mouth. He’d almost forgotten it. Noatak returned his gaze to the other man. “Tarrlok. You look well.”

What else was there to say? _You landed on both feet, obviously_ —or, more to the point, _Where is Yakone? Did you finally finally break, as I did, and turn against him? Did he have the decency to die on his own? Or is he still up there terrorizing helpless animals and children?_ But not _what happened to Mom?_ and _what happened to **you?**_ and never, never _I’m sorry._

There was no fear of exposure here—at least not as a bloodbender. Noatak, confident that his skills outstripped his brother’s as they had always done, dismissed the water and glanced at the door. Tarrlok held up a key.

Noatak’s eyebrows lifted. “Bloodbending?”

“Talking,” said Tarrlok. “I haven’t bloodbent since you left. I’m not sure I even remember how.”

Noatak just looked at him. His brother grimaced and stood up, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his sleeve.

“Noatak, I am about to be chosen to represent the Northern Water Tribe on the Council,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” said Noatak neutrally. “You’re likely the northern tribe’s strongest waterbender.”

Tarrlok’s stare was as pointed as his own. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

It had been a long time since Noatak had thought of himself as a member of the Northern Water Tribe. He’d lived just about everywhere in the time after his escape, wandering from village to village. A non-bender might very well have starved, but even perfect strangers had welcomed him; a gifted waterbender was always useful for something. It had amused him, in an odd distant way, that the same people who paid him to purify their wells and begged him to heal their children would have thrown him out of their villages had they known what he really was. They would have tried, at any rate. Noatak did not care to have his comings and goings dictated to him, even by non-benders.

But it had been years, now, since he arrived in Republic City. This was his home. Nevertheless, he _had_ been forged in the Northern Water Tribe, and he might very well be its greatest waterbender: perhaps the greatest in the world. He could not risk that information getting out, much less the details of his ancestry. But he still couldn’t imagine Tarrlok, future councilman, felt any greater desire than Noatak to acknowledge their foul sire.

Noatak inclined his head, and Tarrlok’s gaze returned to the mask. He picked it up.

“I’m going to be on the Council,” he said again. “The current members are weak and easily led, except Tenzin—and he is a fool with no head for politics. My influence over Republic City’s policies will be—” he paused— “considerable.”

“Are you trying to bribe me, little brother?” Noatak slanted him an amused glance. “What do you want?”

Tarrlok’s eyes narrowed. He looked more like him than ever. It was odd, Noatak thought idly. There’d been hardly any resemblance when they were teenagers. “I want you to explain this to me,” he said, lifting the mask. Then, in a blank, bewildered tone which—for the first time—forcibly reminded his brother of the boy he had been, Tarrlok added, “We’re waterbenders, Noatak. What are you playing at?”

Noatak was used to hiding all emotion behind an unmoving mask. He didn’t even know what his face was doing until he felt his lip curl. “You were right about our bending,” he said. “It’s vile.”

“Bloodbending, yes, but—”

“No, _not_ just bloodbending.” He paced impatiently back and forth. “I have lived all over the world, Tarrlok. Every time someone takes advantage of innocent, ordinary people, it’s some rogue earthbender or firebender. Nor is it only non-benders who suffer. The Fire Lord, himself, lost a third of his face to firebending. You and I were brutalized by waterbending, _our_ waterbending. You weren’t so young that you can’t remember the time before we started bending.”

“The good times,” Tarrlok said distantly, and his expression turned thoughtful.

“Even Yakone could be a decent man, when there was no bending.” Noatak stopped, his arms folded. “Every war and almost every injustice in the world comes down to bending, and all of us, benders and non-benders alike, suffer because of it. It is at its worst, here, in Republic City. Bending gangs roam the streets, terrorizing ordinary citizens and extorting shopkeepers. Crime is handled entirely by metalbenders—any non-earthbenders are barred from applying, no matter how invaluable their skills. Policies for the entire city are made, as _you_ just said, by a handful of weak, easily corrupted incompetents, whose affinity for their elements are the only conceivable reason they wield such influence. Non-benders have no protections and must live in fear for their lives simply for the crime of existing in a world controlled by benders.”

He felt almost like Amon, proclaiming the cause to ever-growing crowds, but this was no carefully prepared, perfectly pitched speech. Just words tumbling out of his mouth, more genuine than any of his grand declamations, and no audience but his little brother.

“The triads,” muttered Tarrlok, disgusted. “The police are worse than useless against them.” He glanced up. “He’s dead, you know.”

Noatak’s mouth curved. “Good.”

Tarrlok, steepling his fingers, leaned back and considered him. “I can see why you might be sympathetic to this movement,” he said. “Not why you—a waterbender!—have gone and made yourself their saviour.”

“You’ve spoken publicly about the importance of maintaining order,” Noatak told him, careful to keep any contempt for the idea out of his voice. “That explains your sympathy with the government, in general—but not why you would spend years working towards ultimate authority within it.”

They looked at each other. Then Tarrlok gave a short laugh.

“There’s nothing quite like it, is there?”

 _Bloodbending._ Noatak remembered the thrill he’d felt as a boy, when a thought could bring everything before him under his sway. These, though, were not dumb animals but people, people who could simply walk away if they chose, people purer and stronger than he was, who followed him of their own will. Even waterbending, even bloodbending, could bring only a shadow of the sheer exhilaration that poured through him as hundreds of people hung on to his every word.

“No,” he said, his voice very low. “Nothing.”

It was more, too, than an exercise of dominion—however pleasant. He was _right._ He was going to bring justice to these people, the same people his father had spent decades exploiting, or die trying. Bloodbending was an abomination, if an occasionally necessary one; this other path, though, lay straight and clear before him, uncomplicated by moral quandaries.

Tarrlok got to his feet and walked over to the window behind his brother. Noatak turned, both siblings gazing down at the dirty grey streets.

“It’s not like our father,” said Tarrlok suddenly. His hand clenched. “I want power to improve the city, not prey upon it. So do you—though frankly it still seems a backwards way of going about it.”

Noatak put a hand on his shoulder. “We are _nothing_ like Yakone.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then Tarrlok said, “Unjust or not, bending is part of the world—part of us. Republic City runs on it. It would be neither appropriate nor possible to chi-block the other benders constantly. The Avatar could do it, perhaps, but she’s just a child in a compound somewhere. However—” He hesitated, and Noatak looked down at him. Only a very little down, now, but he felt some obscure relief that he was still taller. “Give me real, practicable solutions, and soon I will be in a position to enact them.”

It was a larger concession than Noatak had expected—not as much as he wished to accomplish, but it spread new possibilities before him, instead, the straight path swerving. A councilman lending a sympathetic ear could change everything.

“And what would you expect in return?” he asked, infusing a caution he did not feel into his voice.

“I see no reason for the government to concern itself with a few peaceful rallies,” said Tarrlok. “I’d rather it stayed that way.”

Noatak paused. “I understand,” he said. _That_ would depend on Tarrlok. A great deal would depend on Tarrlok.

Beyond this particular matter, though, with Tarrlok running the Council and Noatak leading the Equalists, the city would be theirs in all but name. But theirs to _save_ , not ruin. He remembered the yaks and the wolves, Tarrlok sobbing under his bloodbending (another reason, Noatak thought, to keep their profile low—he’d rather not find himself bloodbending Tarrlok again), and then refusing to reciprocate, standing his ground against their father. When Yakone turned on him, Noatak had thrown himself in front of his brother without a moment’s hesitation. He remembered, too, the years before bending, when snow had been only snow, and animals hadn’t been afraid of them, and they’d wandered the tundra together. Once, his most serious concern had been protecting his baby brother from snowdrifts and the occasional inquisitive bird.

Noatak, with a jolt, returned to the present. His arm was slung loosely about his brother’s shoulders.

“We can do this—make the city the way it should be,” Tarrlok declared.

“The two of us together again,” said Noatak, and smiled at him. “There’s nothing we can’t do.”


End file.
